A Brave Hypocrite
by Writer Awakened
Summary: Complete Now expanded, improved Delita, the commoner hero. What more could he have done, when he did all that he knew? Above all, he was human, and that was all that he could ever ask for.


A Brave Hypocrite

-

As heroes go, Delita Hyral was the most common. He was a legend, the type seen written in books and fantastic legends and acted out on stages, with the hero's character being a standard, commonplace role as liberator and figurehead of justice. Not an everlasting, omnipotent hero, not a saint, but a hero perfectly suited to bear a trivial legend. He started from a humble origin—not all heroes can be royalty, of course—and rose, through determination, perseverance, and hard work. His desire to succeed in his ambitions was triple that of a normal person. From no more than a black sheep, he rose to the role of shepherd, and realized quickly that as long as they can walk and as long as they can think, a human could be herded in much the way a sheep could—as long as they believed that they were the shepherds. Delita had an extraordinary sensitivity as to who were the shepherds and who were the sheep.

Delita Hyral was a common hero. Like all heroes, he won battles and saved lives. Like all heroes, his skill with a sword was exemplary. He looked the part of a hero, he talked the part of a hero, and he believed above all else that he was a hero. Delita was prodigal with his deliberation of justice, and miserly with his definition of mercy. And in the legends—in the legends, like all heroes, he was praised above all else. In the pantheon of heroes, there are those who win battles, those who save lives, and then there are those who do both. As do heroes, the legends see not the middle but only the end; the legends see not the small, courageous lion but the only the proud, majestic vultures that coast in overhead to celebrate over the fallen prey.

What is known least about common heroes is that behind the stories of their deeds is a long trail of unchecked words and bodies; the words being most important. Delita Hyral, O Great King of Ivalice, savior of all that is good, once stood without hesitation and said that he would use before he would be used. King Delita abhorred royalty as he stood in the open fields. He hated kings and queens and princes and princesses for manipulating others for their own gain. King Delita, as he stood, student of Royal Magic Academy of Garland, friend of young Ramza of the Beoulve family, cadet in training under the royal house, watched his sister, a beautiful young woman, die because of the carelessness of royalty. Delita, the man who would be king, promised himself that selfsame day that the malfeasances of royalty would no longer go unchecked. He was freed, and it began.

Common heroes pave their own path into history without drawing a carriage for others. King Delita ended the Lions' War by cutting the knees of the warring factions with the sharpest blade in his stable: his ambition. Just as his sword was a tool, so too was the body of Prince Goltana. So too were the promises and the oaths and the kisses for the poor, embattled "false princess" Ovelia, she who would be queen. Delita made himself the paragon of a hero: a commoner turned king, savior of a broken land, ascended to the throne with an olive branch in one hand and a dull knife rusted away in the other.

A common hero makes concessions, and acknowledges the fact that influence only comes through the influence of others. Without the influence of brave Balbanes Beoulve and his son, Delita would never have been exposed to the world of nobles through his schooling. Without the favor of Goltana, Delita would never have come close enough to kill him. Without the trust of the princess, Delita would never have become king. And Delita the cunning paved one road in concession to an old friend, letting him slip away and with him take a great general of fallen Goltana's stable.

King Delita, the common hero of others' idealistic fantasies, was never satisfied with what was: only what should be. He only saw an Ivalice crowned in peace, prosperity, and gold, turning his eyes away from the nobles and soldiers that made an imperfect rule. To do so, he betrayed the trust of others so that there would be no betrayal. He murdered and assassinated in the hopes that one day such things would not exist. He sought power so that those who wished to abuse it could not: the very definition of a peasant's hero. Above all, he detested royalty, and those who believed they were entitled to privilege, and yet he became King—furthermore, a king whose very image was trivialized into a powerful archetype by his people.

In his desire to make right what was wrong with the world, Delita Hyral, King of Ivalice, the common hero, threw away the quiet comforts of home and journeyed over land and through the bloodied, uneven trenches of maturity with not a single true ally to his name. Many soldiers trudged through hundreds of fields killing a faceless many; Delita, the rogue, the cunning, the villain, laid low a precious few, and let his words cut deepest. Delita Hyral was but a common hero—but a hero nonetheless. He was a good man with a strong sense of brutal justice, just as a hero should be. He made the future his own, and in exchange stained his hands with the blood of sheep and lost a bouquet of bloody roses at his beloved's feet. Those were the oats that he himself sowed, the wool that he himself sheared. His single and paramount sin was the belief that the sacrifices made were purely his own.

-

The king of Ivalice turned away and stumbled until he could no longer see the body of his wife, the queen. He felt a sharp pain in his side from where the dagger had pierced him, between the plates of his armor and into his ribs. It had happened so suddenly. The king's thoughts were a jumble, caught somewhere in-between his wife's words and the stabbing pain. Briefly a painful thought came to mind: _Did I deserve this_?

Delita touched his hand to his wound, and when he withdrew it, he saw his palm stained with blood.

"Oh God…" he mumbled. "If you exist, that is…please don't let Ovelia die."

Delita stumbled along and felt his entire existence being erased. Already the loss of blood from his wound was making him lightheaded. Further on ahead there was a plateau, under which the rolling hills of Zeltennia stretched onward forever and ever. In the midst of the ruined church were scattered broken stones and the faint smell of what might have been incense, or perhaps nothing. Delita put his clean hand to his wound and blood followed along.

"Deeper than—than I thought." Delita said. He felt his legs crumble beneath him. He sat back against a stone wall and his shoulders slumped.

"What must a man do…to save himself? To save his ideals?" Delita said, his eyesight beginning to blur. "Teta…you were happy…being in the company of the high class, weren't you? Were you? I am king now…but I still cannot have the power…to make things the way they once were. I hated knowing that bad things could happen to good people. That's why I tried to—to change everything completely. I wanted a better world. Don't you believe me? Don't you believe me? No war, no poverty, no sin. Imagine a world like that. Are you listening? If I had to live a lie or pull the strings, would it be worth it? Would it be worth it for everyone? That's why…"

Delita's head rolled to the side and snapped up suddenly. His world was beginning to buckle and shake around him as blood drained further from his wound.

"And what about the throne?" he exclaimed. "Who will rise when I'm gone? Who would take my place, so short-lived? O, what a joy!…to be king. And now, will the world erupt in war again? Oh God…"

Delita closed his eyes. It hurt too much to look. A dull, ever-present pain resonated throughout his body, still centering on the throbbing beating clamoring in his ribs. It did not occur to Delita in his unsound state, but perhaps subconsciously, that this was a fitting death for him, a commoner's death. Here he was, after all—alone, cold and shaking against stone, where other kings might have died lying in bed, surrounded by family, retainers, and friends.

"Ramza…where are you? You should see what has become of me. You would laugh. No…you would never laugh at this, would you? I miss you. I miss everyone. Truly..." Delita reached a hand out. It looked to him as if everyone was standing there with arms outstretched, waiting. Ramza, Teta, everyone, and even…Ovelia. They were all waiting for him patiently, as if time—time taken to wage a war, or time taken to rule a land—didn't matter. There they were, each gilded in white and gold, and Delita's eyes watered; it was so beautiful. But they seemed to be slowly sliding away, and his hand could not stretch far enough to reach any of them. "Is there really a Heaven? Was it all just…a lie? You…might be saved…my friends, but…not me. Not me. Some angels have to burn."

His words came aloud in short breaths.

"I tried to use everyone. But the world, it…the whole world used me…all along. Or maybe it was God…if there really _is_…a God…"

A powerful shuddering wracked his body. Delita was completely immobilized, and the sky was sliding in and out of focus. The stone wall behind him did not feel like anything anymore. Rather, it was dull and faraway. His hands, Delita's hands, they were numb and devoid of any feeling, and nearly half his body was weightless. And yet he felt. Delita _felt_. He _felt_ tears streaming down his cheek. He _felt_ alive, more alive than he had ever felt before.

"Glory to Ivalice," Delita said, falling unconscious. "Peace to Ivalice…forever."


End file.
